


Forget Me Not

by PandyMilkovich



Series: It Was A Good Life [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alzheimer's Disease, Future Fic, M/M, Mention of Abuse (canon), Mention of rape (canon)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2015-09-08
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:18:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,417
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4746227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandyMilkovich/pseuds/PandyMilkovich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian is faced with a harsh parallel fifty nine years after his own diagnosis. Old man Mickey and Ian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forget Me Not

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, the fic no one asked for. This is loosely based on a story one of my resident's wives told me while I worked on the Alzheimer's unit of a nursing home. 
> 
> This work is unbeta'd, written and posted from mobile. Please forgive any mistakes!

The cool morning wind whipped through the open windows of the Milkovich house. Not the one the men started their epic romance in sixty one years ago, no, this was their home. A home that was built on hard work and determination; a home that they deflated into to finish up their mundane life after everything they've been though. 

Then Ian remembered, there is nothing mundane about being with Mickey Milkovich. 

"Close the damn window," Mickey grumbled. His peppered hair was now grayed over, but still a rich charcoal just as vibrant as the black it once was.

"Mornin'," Ian greeted, dismissing the tone of his husband.

"Where's Mandy?" Mickey asked, his tone was rough and irritated as he wiped his tired eyes.

Ian scrunched his face in confusion, Mandy had been living in Michigan for over fifteen years and they hadn't seen her since Christmas.

"Home," Ian responded carefully as he poured a glass of orange juice.

He took a moment to look at his wrinkled hands, the faded freckles only seen to the trained eye.

"What?!" Mickey snapped, "since when?" He carried on, taking a step toward the coffee pot. "Bitch took my goddamn cigarettes again," he griped.

Ian was full on confused at this point. Mickey aged gracefully in the looks department, he had also toned down the tude as time went on. Hearing him like this was like taking a step in a time machine. 

"She lives in Michigan, Mick," Ian told the Mickey information he already knew, or should have known. He spoke slowly then looked to Mickey for a reaction. 

The shorter man huffed in exasperation and shook his head, seemingly in an effort to ward off any confusion that made home there. 

"Right right," he said lowly, not meeting Ian's gaze. The once read head was leaned at the counter, watching his husband intently. 

"Still don't have cigarettes." Mickey mumbled, and the carafe shook in his hand as he poured his mug. 

Ian walked over and placed his hand over Mickey's on the handle to steady it, and scanned his eyes over Mickey, who didn't meet his gaze. 

_I can take care of him._

 

**

4 months later. 

The midnight noises filled their room, nothing but crickets and a few howling winds singing past their window. A small shine of light illuminated the floor a delicate shade of blue, and Ian woke to the motions of Mickey tossing and turning. 

"Mick." Ian nudged him. 

Mickey's eyes were screwed shut then suddenly snapped open. There was a terror behind them, one Ian hadn't seen in over fifty years. The younger man swallowed hard as a wave of worry and fear washed through him. Fear of what? He didn't know. 

Mickey had been acting strange, he was having trouble with balance and memory. His equilibrium was off more often than not. He was irritable and angry frequently; something was off. Maybe Ian knew what it was, considering their age, but accepting it was far off his radar. 

"Mick," Ian repeated softly, and placed a hand on his forearm. 

Mickey squinted in confusion then flinched away at the touch. Ian felt a pang in his chest, a pang that had been long forgotten in the years with Mickey. A pang that sent him right back to the Kash and Grab when he was fifteen. Then his heart plummeted into his gut.

"Fuck off me," Mickey snapped, as he searched for some familiarity in the face he was looking at. 

The older man clamored out of the bed, his feet failing to balance him, as he almost stumbled out of the room. Ian flung the blanket off and followed him. Mickey was in the living room pacing, or was he searching for something? 

"Mick, what're you doing?" Ian asked with an underlying thread of worry splattered across his words. 

Mickey reached the kitchen where he dug through all the cabinets. His hands frantically searched the shelves in the dark, and his body was tense. 

"Where is it?" he snapped bitterly. His face was hot with anger, and Ian grew impatient suddenly. The force of Mickey's words took him aback, and he found himself fraught with frustration. 

"What are you looking for?" Ian yelled back, scared and confused. 

He walked over to Mickey and tried to reach out to touch him, but retracted. That felt weird. Touching Mickey was never something he hesitated on or second guessed. Ian took a breath to clear his mind and settle his emotions, then placed his hand gently on Mickey's shoulder. 

Mickey did what Ian was afraid of. He whipped around, shaking Ian from his grasp and narrowed his eyes on him. 

When their eyes locked for a brief moment Mickey relaxed. He let the weight in his shoulders give out, then breathed in sharply. Soon, in a moment frozen in time, Mickey's breath steadied, and he was calm again. He reached his hand out to touch Ian's delicately. Ian thought Mickey looked child-like, in a way Ian couldn't place. Mickey was scared, and Ian could tell that he might be embarrassed, too. 

When Mickey raised Ian's hand up and held it into the light that casted through the kitchen window, he looked up again, and saw the familiar green eyes. 

"Gallagher?" he questioned in awe. 

Ian felt hot tears pool at his lids. Mickey hadn't called him Gallagher since they were entering their thirties, and he wasn't happy to hear it again, not like this. 

"Yeah, it's me." Ian responded softly. He tried hard to mask the hurt in his words, as his chest throbbed with an unidentified pain. 

Mickey looked up at Ian again and nodded. Unsure of the emotion behind the blue eyes, Ian let the tears fall from his green when Mickey turned around and headed back to their bedroom. 

After a moment and a few wet sniffles, Ian followed Mickey's path and saw the man he loved laying in bed again. In all the years, the sight was still the same. Mickey with a hand tucked under his pillow turned on his side, with his eyes still open and his back rising and falling harshy. 

Ian crawled in next to him. Without a word he reached for Mickey's free hand, the tattoos faded like the mind of the man who wore them, and he laced their fingers together. 

Mickey tightened his grip on Ian and rolled into him. After a small silent moment, Ian felt his shirt moisten with warm tears and he wrapped a his other arm around Mickey. The tears fell from the both of them, and Ian waited til Mickey fell asleep before he let his body completely relax, still stroking his husband's back lovingly with comfort. 

_I can take care of him._

 

**

2 months later 

Mickey continued down a path of familiar territory, revisiting situations in time. Ian worked tirelessly trying to keep up with him. One thing that never faltered, though, Mickey always came around and recognized Ian. He had been Gallagher more often than not, but Ian grew comfortable with the name again. He didn't like the circumstances of hearing it, but he pushed that back. He continued to care for Mickey, like the vow they made long before their day at the courthouse. 

Mickey sat at the table eating breakfast, his eyes were distance, and the anger was visible on his face. This was a time Ian knew to tread lightly. Suddenly, Mickey punched the table, oblivious to Ian's presence at all. 

"Then he called me a faggot, he pistol whipped me. Piece of shit." Mickey began to explicitly explain the memory that Ian was all too familiar with. Mickey seemed in a daze, like he was in his own bubble, not realizing he was shouting or that he had an audience. 

"Mick, Mick-," Ian tried to place a hand on Mickey's. 

"Piece of shit, get off him!" He bellowed. Ian dropped everything and rushed to the other side of the table. He knelt down next to Mickey's chair and shook at his leg. 

"Mick, I'm fine. I'm right here," he tried, but Mickey went on and on. "Mick, he's dead," Ian said desperately in an effort for Mickey to just stop. 

His attempts were useless, Mickey sprung from the chair, almost knocking Ian over, and went to the cabinets again. Ian could tell there were tears perched on the shorter man's eyes, his eyes looking exactly like they did that day. 

The cabinet doors snapped open, a loud crack rang through to room as they smacked against the others. He searched desperately, with his hands trembling. 

"Where is it? Where is it?" Mickey muttered over and over again. 

"Mick! Stop!" Ian snapped, fraught with pain. 

"Where's my gun, you piece of shit?" Mickey looked at Ian like he was someone else. Like he was _him_. Ian's eyes filled, stinging with the worst pain he'd ever felt. His heart hollowed, and the stab was forceful and blunt as it pierced his chest. He had never been looked at like that before, not by Mickey. It sent a chill down his spine and his ears began to throb.

"It's me," Ian started softly, the tears escaped his eyes unceremoniously. "It's Ian." 

Mickey didn't seem phased by the information. He scoffed, looking at Ian like he shit on the bottom of his shoe, and narrowed his eyes on him. 

"Where is he fuck face?" He seethed. 

Ian raked his hand through his aged blonde hair, and tried to collect himself. He was hurting, but he knew it was nothing compared to the nightmare Mickey was reliving right now. 

He took an apprehensive step forward, and watched as Mickey squared his shoulders and tensed up. Ian's pulse was thumping hard in his neck, he could feel it. He closed his eyes briefly, and punished himself for being scared of Mickey in this moment. Mickey would never hurt Ian, ever. But Mickey was quite convinced Ian was someone else, someone he would hurt, so he approached him cautiously. 

"Look," Ian said softly, reaching his hand out to show Mickey. 

Mickey looked at Ian's face then quickly down at his hand, he scanned his eyes over it. He looked confused - he was. After a small pause he looked up to Ian again, who nodded. Mickey seemed to relax, only slightly, and took another step toward Ian to inspect his hand. 

He looked at it in amazement, almost studied it. Recognition painted across his face, followed by relief. He completely relaxed when he realized who Ian was, and palmed his eyes in an effort to ward off the tears. 

"Ian?" 

"Yeah, it's me." 

Mickey took the hand that he held in his, laced their fingers together, and watched as the perfectly molded as one. Always a perfect fit. 

_I can take care of him._

 

** 

 

3 months later

Yev resurfaced from his father's room and into the living room where his stepfather sat. Ian took in the sight of him, sixty one years old, he still couldn't believe it. His tattooed arms were faded and spread. He had a whole sleeve of ocean waves, something Ian never understood because they never lived near one, but Yev had always had a liking for it. His greying hair gave away his age, and showed the stress of his life. 

"Getting worse," he said to Ian, and sat in Mickey's recliner. 

"I got it," Ian told him, not sure how true those words were. 

"Didn't know who I was, thought I was Carl." Yev sighed with an exhaustingly sad expression, sadder than Ian had ever seen it.

Ian's heart clenched at the name of his brother that he'd lost three years prior in a car accident. Mickey should have known that, should have known Yev couldn't possibly be Carl. 

"Ya gotta make the call, dad," Yev pleaded to the man he had grown to call Dad. 

Ian felt his heart beat faster, pushing back the reality of the situation he sat in. He wasn't going to call anyone. He made a promise. He wasn't going to call. 

"I said I got it," he answered firmly. The idea of putting Mickey into a home that wasn't theirs was not an option. 

"You sound like him," Yev said after a moment. "He said that once too, I know the story. Just like you, he needs more." 

Ian wouldn't believe those words; refused. He was going to take care of Mickey, that's all there was too it. Yes, it had been hard lately. Mickey was more combative, angry, frustrated and lost, but that's his husband, and he isn't going to leave him now. Not after everything. 

"No, he doesn't." Ian shut down the conversation. 

Yev sighed and rubbed a hand over his mouth, just like his father did. It displayed the matching tattoo of said father, something Yev did as an act of rebellion at fifteen, and masked it as admiration. Ian almost saw Mickey in that moment. The way his son looked, it was like deja vu. There was nostalgia screaming in his heart, and a suffering in his eyes. 

Yev got up, with nothing left to say, and grabbed his coat, "I'll come by with the kids tomorrow, Alexis will be in town and wants to see her Pop. Same with Clayton."

Ian rose from the couch and gave Yev a hug, it lingered longer than it should have. 

"Call me if you need me," Yev comforted. 

"I will, love you." 

"Love you too. And go tell him that, he needs to hear it from someone he knows," Yev said with a smile that wasn't seen in his eyes. 

Ian nodded and after he watched Yev pull out of the driveway, he went into his room where Mickey was watching old reruns in bed. 

"Hey," Ian greeted softly, and Mickey looked up. 

"Where's Yev?" Mickey asked, and Ian blinked at him in shock. 

"He just left, you remember he was here?" 

Mickey chewed the corner of his mouth, and nodded falsely, and Ian actually smiled a little.

"It's okay if you don't. I can tell you all about it." Ian smiled small. 

"Okay." Mickey blushed with embarrassment for not remembering. 

Ian walked over and arranged his pillows to sit next to Mickey and laced their fingers together. He was comforted when Mickey didn't inspect them, which meant he was lucid enough to recognize Ian immediately. 

"First," Ian started, remembering what Yev said. "I love you." He looked at Mickey, and something in his husband's eyes warmed. 

"I love you, too." Mickey pressed their lips together softly, then Ian dove into his tale after their lips separated. 

"So, he said Clayton is good, finally got a job, and apparently in love with some woman he met on the train." Ian began to recall his earlier conversation with Yev. 

"Clayton? That's your middle name," Mickey said in disbelief, and Ian smiled. 

"Yeah, I'll go a little further back for you." Ian sensed Mickey didn't recall their grandson. "When Yev was in highschool, he met a girl."

"Oh Christ," Mickey huffed with rolling eyes, and Ian laughed. 

"Don't worry, she didn't come home pregnant till college..." Ian had a smile hinting on his lips. 

Mickey stuck with the story for three hours, only getting disoriented a few times, but Ian steered him back on the right road. He learned that not only did Yev have a kid, but Yev's kid has a kid - great grandparents. 

"Jesus Christ, we're old," Mickey sighed. 

"Yes we are." 

Mickey casted his eyes down, and bit the inside of his lip before looking up to Ian, who met his eyes immediately. 

"What?"

 Mickey paused, while his milk skin turned a soft shade of pink.

"How old are we?" Mickey asked sheepishly. 

"Well I'm 76," Ian told him, and before he could finish, Mickey cut in. 

"I'm 78?" He blurted out, dumbfounded. 

"I see you're still good at math in your old age," Ian joked. 

"It was plus two, I'm not that much of a fucking idiot...yet" Mickey said, and they both laughed. It wasn't a real laugh, the word 'yet' lingered in the air like a diagnoses. 

When the sounds of the small laugh dissipated, Mickey took a small breath to collect himself then squeezed Ian's hand. He dropped his head to his husband's shoulder and Ian kissed at it as a tear fell, surprising him when he felt it on his cheek.

_I can take care of him._

 

**

 

3 weeks later

Mickey trekked through the house, looking at the living room intently, just standing there rubbing his chin.

"What's the matter?" Ian asked from where he sat at the table with the laptop open, researching shit he didn't want to be researching.

"Gotta figure out what's wrong with this engine," he pointed to the couch. Ian's heart sank; hallucinations. "Where are my tools?" Mickey asked as he began to search the living room. 

All tools, knives, and oven knobs had long since been removed and stored away since Mickey started - whatever this is. Ian knew what Mickey was seeing was real, felt real at least. There was in fact a car in their living room, according to Mickey. As Ian's heart threatened to crack, he shut the laptop after jotting down a phone number and walked over to Mickey. 

"I don't know," he told him, and Mickey looked at him annoyed. _Redirect_. The word from the information he just read filled his mind.

"They were just hear the other day!" Mickey grumbled, sifting through a pile of magazines.

 _The garage_ , Ian thought, so Mickey was about thirty in his mind.

"Why don't we just wait till Chet gets back and ask him. We talk about what could be wrong with it while we wait." Ian suggested, and it was nothing short of a miracle that he remembered Mickey's old coworker's name.

Ian tried to dismiss that he sounded like he was talking to a toddler. Mickey huffed an annoyed breath into the air, and reached for Ian's hand. Mickey grabbed it, scanned his eyes over it, then quickly looked up to Ian.

"It's me," Ian smiled.

Mickey nodded, then let go and walked to the kitchen table.

"So what's wrong with it?" Ian played into the hallucination. He knew how they felt, remembered all of his. The memories flooded his mind, and his heart that was on the brink of shattering broke a little more. 

"Fucking engine is corroded I think." Mickey tapped his fingers on the table and bit his nails in thought. He finally got exhausted with his efforts to figure out what was wrong with the imaginary car and stood up abrubtly. "Fuck, I need a cigarette." He announced.

"Okay," Ian agreed, hoping that if they walked out of the house then back in the 'car' would be gone. "I'll grab our coats," he said and made his way to their bedroom closet.

He fiddled around looking for Mickey's favorite jacket and scarf, he paused a moment when he saw a box perched on the shelf above him and reached for it, knowing what was inside. Momentarily forgetting about Mickey in the next room over he opened it, and was flooded with memories.

He shuffled through some papers, the deed, a will, and a few other important documents and retrieved a picture - his favorite picture. On the surface it looked like a picture of Debbie and Fiona on Deb's wedding day, but beyond that is where the real moment lived. Mickey and Ian wearing their best suits stood in the background. Mickey had been tipsy, he stood with his arms around Ian's waist, leaned back just slightly, smiling up at him. Ian had his hands laced together behind Mickey, resting on the small of his back, reciprocating an equally warm, genuine smile. A smile that only could bloom in the company of the man he was looking at.

Ian remembered the day, what him and Mickey were talking about. They weren't married at the time, and Mickey had asked Ian if he ever thought about it. 

_"Of course I do," Ian answered him._

_"So then what's the fuckin' hold up?" Mickey smiled._

_"Is this a proposal Mickey Milkovich?"_

_"Yeah, Ian Gallagher, I guess it is."_

Ian let his fingertips whisper over the moment that was frozen in time, and idly wondered if Mickey remembered it. He looked down in the box again and there it was, their very own fucking peice of paper. He saw a tear land on it then wiped his eyes, and cherished the memory.  

Suddenly, he heard Mickey curse loudly, quickly followed by the smell of smoke. Ian shoved the picture in his pocket and raced out to the living room where their couch was on fire. The flames were small, and Mickey was trying to put it out by slapping it with a pillow. Ian rushed over and grabbed Mickey by the wrist. Mickey whipped around and punched Ian in the face. Between Mickey's strength and his withering aged bones, Ian felt the effects of the hit. 

He rubbed his throbbing jaw and Mickey went to throw another one, but Ian quickly grabbed his fist and brought it down to his sides. 

"Get outside!" Ian demanded, and Mickey's face hardened. 

"Fuck you, you can burn right along with this couch, you piece of shit." Mickey spat back, and Ian fumbled to catch up, and noticed the flames getting higher. 

Mickey wound up for another punch but Ian dodged it.

 "Rape Mandy on it," Mickey grunted, going for another hit. Ian tried to catch that one too. "Order a rape on me, you can fucking burn on it," he rambled on. Terry, Ian was Terry again. 

Not having time to argue or think, Ian dodged a final blow, grabbed Mickey's wrist then the phone and pulled them out the door. 

"Fuck off me," Mickey shouted, in the clear light of day outside. Ian shook his head in anger. He was filled with disbelief as he dialed up 911. He rested the phone between his shoulder and ear and darted his hand out for Mickey to inspect, who spat on it. 

"Hi, yes, there's a fire at my house. 101 Stone Ct." Ian said to the dispatcher. "Yes, everyone is fine. My husband started it, trying to light a cigarette," Ian explained. At least he thought that's how it started. 

He saw Mickey run his hands through his hair, and pace, his face was hot with anger, and his hands planted at his hips. When Ian saw him try to dart away he grabbed him again and pulled him down onto the step in front of their house. 

"Thank you," Ian said bitterly to Mickey and the dispatcher, then hung up the phone. 

Mickey was breathing sharply, his nostrils flared and his ears were growing red. He had his head rested in the palm of his hands, and Ian watched his back rise and fall tensely. 

"Hey," Ian snapped, more mad than he intended. When Mickey didn't respond, Ian pulled at his arm. 

Mickey looked up and a small glimmer of recognition lit up in his eyes, only for a fleeting moment, then it was gone. 

"Look." Ian shoved his hand out to Mickey. "See?" He pointed to the faded freckles. "It's me. It's Ian, your husband." Ian began to cry, his voice was raised and wavering, all the emotions he felt were pouring out of him at once and it couldn't stop his hands from trembling. "Remember?" Ian asked the question as a plea, but Mickey didn't look at him. Ian grabbed his hands to jerk him into the moment. "Ian Gallagher, fifteen years old I broke into your room," he started to sob, "fell in love with you when I was sixteen, we had a life, a family, kids, grandkids. Nothing?" He cried. Mickey only grew more impatient. 

"Look at me, okay?" Ian pleaded, his tone fading. "You have to remember this," he gestured between them. "How could you forget, when you've known me your whole life? South side. School. Baseball. Kash and Grab." Ian rambled, searching Mickey's face. "Mickey, I love you. You have to know that. You have to remember that." Ian began to shake Mickey's shoulders lightly.

Mickey finally looked up to Ian seeing his soaking wet eyes. The torment, the helplessness. 

"Ian?" Mickey asked softly, and Ian nodded. Hearing Ian felt good, amazing even, in this moment.

"Yeah, yeah its me," he whispered. 

Mickey enveloped around him, hugging him tightly around the shoulders, and sunk his head into the crook of Ian's neck; he sobbed.

"I'm sorry." Mickey managed to get out, as Ian held him close and sunk a kiss on his scalp. 

_I can take care of him._

 

**

 

The next day

The small fire was put out before it ever had a chance to spread, Mickey spent the whole night apologizing, and Ian tried very hard to ignore his husband's mannerisms were that of a seven year old. 

Ian sat at the table, looked over at the burnt couch, and sighed. He fiddled a piece of paper in his hand and held out his phone. He dialed the numbers then hung up quickly, before it ever had a chance to ring. 

"I can take care of him," he whispered to himself. Except it wasn't the same voice he heard in his mind all these months. 

He got up and checked on Mickey, who was still sleeping, and one thought came to his mind. 

Seventeen and walking into the Cook County hospital ward. Mickey had taken care of him, he had got him there. He made sure he was safe. He walked with him all the way to the gate and didn't leave - even after they shut the doors behind him. Mickey watched him disappear down a hallway and out of sight. Mickey never stopped taking care of Ian and now, after all this time, Ian had to take care of Mickey. 

"Let me take care of him," he barely said, almost absent from the fact he was speaking. He let the moisture hit his cheeks, and wiped them away. He went back out to the kitchen, and with no other option, and running thin himself, he dialed up the nursing home. 

A pleasant voice answered and Ian barely got the words out when she asked the nature of the call. 

"My, uh, my husband," he trembled. "I think he has Alzheimer's."

**Author's Note:**

> I have a second 'chapter' in mind, but will wait to see how this one is received before I write it/post it.


End file.
